« PredošláPokračovať »
O TRUANT Muse; what shall be thy amends,
SONNET CIII. The forward violet thus did I cbide; [smells, Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth, If not from my love's breath? The purple pride That having such a scope to show her pride, Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells, The argument, all bare, is of more worth, In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd. Than when it hath my added praise beside. The lily I condemned for thy hand,
O blame me not if I no more can write!
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
SONNET CVIII. To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
What's in the brain that ink may character, For as you were, when first your eye I ey'd, Which hath not figurd to thee my true spirit ? Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold What 's new to speak, what new to register, Have from the forests shook three summers' pride; That may express my love, or thy dear merit? Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd, Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, In process of the seasons have I seen,
I must each day say o'er the very same; Three April perfumes in three bot Junes burn'd, Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green. Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name. Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial band,
So that eternal love in love's fresh case Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd, Weighs not the dust and injury of age, So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv’d. But makes antiquity for aye his page; For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred, Finding the first conceit of love there bred, Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. Where time and outward form would show it dead.
SONNET CIX. Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
O never say that I was false of heart, Nor my beloved as an idle show,
Though absence seem'd my fame to qualify, Since all alike my songs and praises be,
As easy might I from myself depart, To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie: Kind is my love to day, to morrow kind,
That is my home of love: if I have rang'd, Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Like him that travels, I return again ; Therefore my verse to constancy confin’d, Just to the time, not with the time exchang'd, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. So that myself bring water for my stain. Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words ; All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood, And in this change is my invention spent,
That it could so preposterously be staind, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. To leave for nothing all thy sum of good; Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone, For nothing this wide universe I call, Which three, till now, never kept seat in one. Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.
Which alters when it alteration finds,
It is the star to every wandering bark, (taken. That my steel'd sense or changes, right or wrong. Whose worth's unknown, although his height be In so profound abysm I throw all care
Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Of others' voices, that my adder's sense
Within his bending sickle's compass come; To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
If this be errour, and upon me prov'd, That all the world besides methinks are dead. I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
We sicken to sb'in sickness, when we purge; To make of monsters and things indigest,
Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness, Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding, Creating every bad a perfect best,
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness As fast as objects to his beams assemble?
To be diseas'd, ere that there was true needing. o't is the first; 't is flattery in my seeing, Thus policy in love, to anticipate And my great mind most kingly drinks it up: The ills that were not, grew to faults assured, Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, And brought to medicine a healthful state, And to his palate doth prepare the cup:
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured. If it be poison’d, 't is the lesser sin
But thence I learn, and find the lesson true, That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin. Drugs poison' him that so fell sick of you.
SONNET CXIX. Those lines that I before have writ, do lie,
What potions have I drunk of Syren tears, Even those that said I could not love you dearer; Distil'd from limbecks foul as Hell within, Yet theo my judgment knew no reason why Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, My most full faine should afterwards burn clearer. Still losing when I saw myself to win! But reckoning time, whose million'd accidents What wretched errours hath my heart committed, Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings, Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never ! Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted, Divert strong minds to the course of altering things; In the distraction of this madding fever! Alas! why, fearing of time's tyranny,
O benefit of ill! now I find true Might I not then say, now I love you best,
That better is by evil still made better; When I was certain o'er incertainty,
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew, Crowning the present, doubting of the rest ? Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. Love is a babe; then might I not say so,
So I return rebuk'd to my content, To give fall growth to that which still doth grow? And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent,
WERE it aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern thy outward honouring, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd
Or lay'd great bases for eternity, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.
Which prove more short than waste or ruining? For why should others' false adulterate eyes
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent, Which in their wills count bad what I think good? Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent ?
For compound sweet foregoing simple favour, No,-I am that I am; and they that level At my abuses, reckon up their own :
No;-let me be obsequious in thy heart, I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel; Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free, By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown; But mutual render, only me for thee. Unless this general evil they maintain,
Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul, All men are bad and in their badness reign.
When most impeach'd, stands least in thy control.
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name ;
But now is black beauty's successive heir, They are but dressings of a former sight.
And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire For since each hand hath put on nature's power, What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
Fairing the foul with art's false-borrow'd face, And rather make them born to our desire,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy hour, Than think that we before have heard them told. But is profan'd, if not lives in disgrace. Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, Not wondering at the present por the past; Her eyes so suited; and they mourners seem For thy records and what we see doth lie,
At such, who not born fair, no beauty lack, Made more or less by thy continual baste:
Slandering creation with a false esteem: This I do vow, and this shall ever be,
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee. That every tongue says, beauty should look so.
SONNET CXXXII. How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, Thing eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds Knowing thy heart, torment me with disdain; With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st Have put on black, and loving mourners be, The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. Do I envy those jacks, that nimble leap
And truly not the morning Sun of Heaven To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, Nor that full star that ushers in the even, At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! Doth half that glory to the sober west, To be so tickled, they would change their state As those two mourning eyes become thy face: And situation with those dancing chips,
O let it then as well beseem thy heart O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace, Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips. And suit thy pity like in every part. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Then will I swear beauty herself is black, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
SONNET CXXXIII. The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan Is lust in action, and till action, lust
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me! Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Is 't nut enough to torture me alone, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be ? Enjoy'd no sooner, but despised straight; Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, Past reason bunted; and no sooner had,
And my next self thou harder hast engross'd; Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait,
Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken; On purpose laid to make the taker mad :
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be cross'd. Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, Had, baving, and in quest to have, extreme; But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail; A bliss in proof,—and prov'd, a very woe; Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; Before, a joy propos’d; behind, a dream: Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail: All this the world well knows; yet none knows well And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee, To shun the Heaven that leads men to this Hell. Perforce am tbine, and all that is in me
And I myself am mortgag'd to thy will;
For thou art covetous, and he is kind;
And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake;
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.
WHOEVER bath her wish, thou hast thy will,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious, Although I swear it to myself alone.
And in my will no fair acceptance shine? And, to be sure that is not false I swear,
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still, A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
And in abundance addeth to his store; One on another's neck, do witness bear
So thou, being rich in will, add to thy will Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place. One will of mine, to make thy large will more. Io nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds, Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill; And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds. Think all but one, and me in that one Will.